Chapter 1: Feast for a Hungry Spirit

The year I hit rock bottom—hungry, ragged, and haunted by every mistake—I prowled the edge of the town cemetery. The air was sharp with the smell of wet earth and cut grass, and the old iron gate creaked every time the wind picked up. I kept wild spirits away from the crumbling gravestones and half-rotten offerings, thinking only of my next meal. That’s when word got around: the Harrisons were holding a ceremony to find a spiritual protector for their little girl.

I remember the scene like a bad dream—the street jammed with cars on both sides, neighbors peeking from behind porch railings, voices low and anxious. The kitchen windows fogged up, and the scent of roast turkey and sticky-glazed ham hit me like Thanksgiving at my grandma’s house, when the whole family squeezed around a table too small for our elbows. For the first time in weeks, my mouth actually watered.

"Please, any guardian or angel out there—if you can heal my little girl, I’ll build you a chapel, put your name on a plaque, anything. Just save her." Mr. Harrison’s voice carried out the front door, echoing off the battered mailbox and the lopsided basketball hoop.

Building a chapel wasn’t much of a promise here—every corner in this New England town had some weathered church or faded memorial. But the sight of all that food laid out on the dining table made my head spin. My stomach growled so loud I was sure someone would catch me.

Next thing I knew, I was up on the table, tearing into turkey faster than you could blink. The room fell dead silent except for the sound of me crunching through skin and bone. As I tore into the turkey, I remembered the last time I’d eaten like this—when someone left a pie cooling on a windowsill, and I got chased off with a broom. Guilt burned in my chest, but hunger won out.

The house manager—buttoned up, stiff as a deacon at Sunday service—stumbled into the dining room, eyes wide. "Who let this mangy cat in here, eating the offerings like it owns the place?" he yelled, voice cracking.

But before he could run me off, Mr. Harrison dropped to his knees with a heavy, desperate thud that rattled the floorboards. "Please, any guardian, save my daughter!" His face was pale, hands trembling on the worn hardwood.

I glanced at the parked SUV outside the window. In the backseat, a little girl lay slumped, her skin almost gray. I could sense her spirit was fractured, like a broken night-light barely hanging on. My one good eye blinked in surprise—

My fur bristled. This wasn’t just another haunting—this was the kind of mess that stuck with you. Oh no. The weight of responsibility settled over me like a cold shiver, as if I’d suddenly remembered the messes I’d left behind in a dozen other towns.